


Figments and Fragments

by Decisions_Decisions



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Communication Failure, Extramarital Affairs, M/M, Pygmalion, no one wins, unhappily married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:59:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decisions_Decisions/pseuds/Decisions_Decisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a writer in love with his own creation, with a marriage that's falling apart at the seams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Figments and Fragments

He’s supposed to be writing, Moriarty is still running free and Sherlock is still playing along with the psychopath’s games. He knows where the confrontation will take place; he’s engineered the perfect scene. He should be wrapping this up by now, he's finally got some time alone and he's finally got the inspiration. His publisher has been hounding him about this one calling him more and more often just to tell him that he needs to have it done. People are eager to meet the main villain and now John finally has him fleshed out; they want to know if Sherlock survives his most dangerous enemy. His brain isn’t cooperating with him though, because instead of dancing to Moriarty’s song Sherlock Holmes has him wrapped in his arms.

“John.” The word is a filthy whisper in his ear, breathy and needy as Sherlock presses up against him sending heat searing through his every nerve. It’s dirty, the thoughts that whirl through his brain at the sound, the way it lights a fire in him that wants to burn to consume, until there's nothing left but smoke and ash. It's terrifying, the way his heart forgets to beat, the way everything in him wants nothing more than to loose himself in it, to press his fingers into pale skin and leave jagged red marks behind as he kisses and licks and feels. It's the kind of terror that keeps him breathless at night, wide awake and aching for something he can't reach no matter how fast he runs toward it. 

He doesn't bother to stop the smile that forms on his face, not that he could, as he feels his heart restart and begin to beat faster as the hands holding him begin to creep lower brushing the denim of his jeans. He can feel Sherlock's lips on his neck kissing and biting and smirking as John's breath leaves his mouth in moans and groans and fervent whispers of Sherlock's name. He wants to but can't risk leaning back against the wall of heat behind him. The illusion is too precious to break.

“John.” The voice echoes again, warm breath ghosting through his ear, the wet tip of a tongue just brushing the outer shell of it. Pressure builds in his stomach a vessel for the warmth that pools in his groin. John’s heart picks up its pace as he feels lips, soft and plush wrap around the tip of his ear, teeth pressing just hard enough to make his body ache with want. The hands on his waist squeeze reassuringly before one follows the seam of his zipper lower and lower with just the barest hint of pressure. He was never certain how he managed it, being able to almost be with Sherlock like this so tangible that he could swear that it was real. 

“Sherlock.” His breath comes out in a stutter as the hand presses harder and it's too much and not enough. He turns to encase the warm body behind him, his eyes closed to keep the illusion going. His arms wrap around the thick wool of Sherlock’s coat and he wants so badly to capture the smirking satisfied lips with his own and chase the taste of death and adrenaline and arousal he always finds in Sherlock's mouth. Instead he presses his face into a silk shirt that he thinks should be purple the feeling like gripping onto a satiny curtain in a hurricane. He feels like he could be ripped away at any moment and it's as exciting as it is devastating.

The smell of the smoke of designer cigarettes clings to the fabric and the skin beneath it mixing in with a smell he can't place but knows as Sherlock's. A hand finds his chin and gently oh so gently raises his head until he's staring into the face of his very own guardian angel. In his mind’s eye he can see eyes soft with affection in a grey that shifts hue to blue or green at a moments notice and dark curls that halo around pale skin and sharp cheekbones. He can see pale perfect cupids bow lips pulled into a pleased expression that’s almost but not quite a smile. Sherlock’s hand rests against his face his thumb tracing the outline of his lips with the barest pressure long dexterous fingers running gently through his hair.

“James.” The word forms on Sherlock's lips but the name is wrong, he's only ever been John to Sherlock and the voice that leaves his mouth is soft and annoyed, an undercurrent of anger running right beneath the surface like a river in a cavern.

Sherlock bursts into a million points of colour behind his eyes and fades like morning mist on a sunny day as his eyes fly open. The warmth vanishes leaving behind a freezing void that grows with every breath he takes. He shoves the embarrassment of almost being caught down the blush fading from his cheeks. He turns just as Mary sweeps into the room a firestorm in shades of red and yellow. Her face is pinched and it reminds him of lemons, it’s a lemon face, sour and too strong without any sweetness to temper it. Her eyes are wide and it’s not in the wide eyed wonder that they used to be filled with, it feels like those eyes flay him open exposing his vulnerable inner thoughts, the dirty sinful things that he and Sherlock get up to in the privacy of his own mind.

“Mary!” John says it a little too happily, like he always tends to do when he’s not really happy. His smile is tense, his whole body is a bowstring pulled taut, and he remembers a time when it wasn’t like this. They’d been so in love with each other, so drunk on the ways they made each other feel, but they’d fallen apart like a house of cards at the first sign of turbulence. They hadn't even been married long but they wore their vows like a shirt too sizes too small, cramped and uncomfortable and frustrating.

He takes a breath and closes his eyes, it's not cheating if it's in his head, it's not cheating if it's not real, he whispers to himself. He feels the ghost of a laugh echo through his mind and he feels as though Sherlock is laughing at him for even bothering to try lying to himself. 

“James.” Her voice is as pinched as her face and it’s cold, it’s always cold between them lately. Her eyes flick between his face and the computer that has a screen saver instead of his half written novel flashing across the screen. “I thought you were supposed to be writing. Your publishers started calling me at work. They said that you missed the deadline again."

“I took a break and I told them not to do that anymore.” John sighed, feeling more resigned than angry. 

Mary snorted bringing her cup of takeout coffee to her lips. “Well they’re getting desperate, not that I blame them, you should have had it finished weeks ago. What have you been doing pissing the hours away?” 

He tells himself that Mary doesn’t mean to be snide as his reply forms in his mouth, the lie slipping from his tongue easier now than it had when Sherlock first decided to step off of the pages of his novels to torment him with a relationship that could never exist. “Moriarty is the villain and I haven’t been able to get his voice right, yet. He’s the main villain and people have been waiting for him since the end of a Study in Pink. He needs to be menacing and clever and daring, a foe worthy of Sherlock.” 

Mary rolled her eyes and it suddenly struck him that he’d pictured Moriarty rolling his eyes the exact same way in the pool. He shoves away that thought before it had time to form the implications of it sitting like a stone in his stomach. “Sherlock, it’s always Sherlock with you nowadays."

“Well he is the main character of the book I'm working on, why wouldn't I talk about him?” John won’t deny that his reply was snide, but he'd be lying if he said that he was never defensive of Sherlock and his feelings for the nonexistent man. It shouldn’t hurt when she ribs him for sounding too in love with him when he writes, but John had always been a little bit in love with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was smart and brave, compassionate though he didn’t like to show it, and he could look at a person and know everything about them. John hadn't even stood a chance when he appeared like an apparition before him, what artist could deny their most beloved creation. 

“What about A.G.R.A.? She was my favorite, but you never write about her anymore. You could have built an entire series around her." Mary said almost dreamily her fingers curled around her coffee as she sipped from it.

John pinched the bridge of his nose shaking his head wanting to end this before things began heating up as they always seemed to recently. “I'm sorry Mary I've tried, but whenever I tried to write anything more with her it was like all my ideas regarding her just vanished. Besides if I was going to expand on any character it'd be Sherlock. There's still so much we don't know about him, so much to explore." John says and though he thought Mary sounded dreamy when talking about A.G.R.A. he is far worse than she is. His voice is reverent and distant as his brain automatically tries to trace the trail he's placed before himself.

Mary leaned back against the counter the name Sherlock like a magic word making the smile vanish from her face instantly replaced with the frown he's become oh so familiar with. “Explore what his days in drug dens wasting away on crack or the reasons why he's a total lunatic? You should write more about A.G.R.A. she’s so complex and interesting, an international assassin, a woman who isn't reliant on looking pretty to win. I don't know how you can't see that she is definitely your best character. I don't even know why you bother with Sherlock anymore, everyone hates him." 

John sighed heavily ignoring the stab of pain that went through his heart at her careless dismissal of his opinion. “In your opinion Mary she might be the best, but a lot of people including me happen to like Sherlock and I'm certain many of them think is my best character." 

“It doesn't mean he is." Mary's smile was sharp now, like splintered glass. 

John took a breath and let it go, reminding himself that his feelings are not the only ones being hurt right now. He shakes his head and puts it aside lest the argument bubbling under the surface begin to form. "Let's just agree to disagree."

"Fine, I'm going to the store, I'll be back, and I want to read what you've written while I was away. You've built up this Moriarty a lot I want to see how he's like." She flashes him a smile and it's almost like the one's she used to wear when they were happy. It makes him feel dirty in a completely different way than the imaginations of Sherlock do. He can almost see the knife of his betrayal in his hand twisting in deeper staining his fingers red.

He clenches his hand but it doesn't help, he can still feel the sticky squelching feeling between his fingers. He suddenly feels a strange affinity for Lady Macbeth, because he knows that no matter how much he want's to get rid of it his hands are stained. His lips lock together to keep the lies and the taste of blood in and he smiles at her, despite knowing that it looks like his face is straining against the action and nods. Her smile shifts to one less real and she walks out of the room the sound of the front door closing echoing soon after. He lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel Sherlock taking form behind his shoulder the atmosphere of the room changing lit up with a peculiar electricity that dances down the hairs of his arms and caresses the back of his neck.

"I don't think I can do this anymore Sherlock." The words are a heavy bitter tasting lie on his tongue, but it's a flavor he's used to. He could do this forever if only he could keep Sherlock, but the shreds of reality are a sharp net around the illusion, and they are snapping one by one under the weight of his desire.

"Then don't. Stay with me." Sherlock pleads a broken whisper into his ear, his voice earnest and clear of the arrogance he wears like armor. His arms wrap around John as firm as steel and as substantial as fog in the sun. 

John laughs suddenly and it's as broken and wrung out and strained as he feels the edge of hysteria pressing into it like the edge of a knife. He forces himself to stop forces himself to keep it together as rage builds in his chest and bubbles like a cauldron in a witch's hut. 

"You're not even real!" He flings it at Sherlock like a bullet from a gun wanting him to hurt, to suffer for not being real, for being perfect but not enough. The instant the words are out of his mouth he wants to take them back, wants to beg for forgiveness, wants to make them into the lie they feel like.

Sherlock turns his slumped shoulders the only indication that his bullet hit it's mark. He turns his head and looks at John over his shoulder his eyes cold with rejection, stained with pity, and hard with anger. His voice however is soft as a caress even though the words strike John like a battering ram to his chest. "Oh John I'm only as real as you want me to be."


End file.
